


The First Date Affair

by Erushi



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Coffee Shops, M/M, Modern Day Coffee Shop AU, Napoleon tries to woo Illya with coffee
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-08
Updated: 2015-10-08
Packaged: 2018-04-25 12:13:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4960183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Erushi/pseuds/Erushi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Napoleon was used to seeing all sorts in his shop: harried office types who knocked back their espressos before grabbing a long black to go, bored housewife types who took their lattes heavy on the syrups and low on the fat, tourists who ordered their coffees topped with whipped cream as they embraced a certain vacation-based <i>joie de vie<i>, college kids simply looking for a cheap caffeine fix while they took advantage of his free Wi-Fi.</i></i></p><p>Six foot five, blond and leanly muscled, on the other hand, at seven in the morning and with the most delicious jawline Napoleon had seen in days, was certainly a first. </p><p>---</p><p>Or: The modern day coffee shop AU in which Napoleon makes Illya all kinds of coffee except for Illya's actual order, and things aren't all quite what they seem to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The First Date Affair

Napoleon was used to seeing all sorts in his shop: harried office types who knocked back their espressos before grabbing a long black to go, bored housewife types who took their lattes heavy on the syrups and low on the fat, tourists who ordered their coffees topped with whipped cream as they embraced a certain vacation-based _joie de vie_ , college kids simply looking for a cheap caffeine fix while they took advantage of his free Wi-Fi.

Six foot five, blond and leanly muscled, on the other hand, at seven in the morning and with the most delicious jawline Napoleon had seen in days, was certainly a first.

“We’re not open yet,” he called out cheerfully as he set out the last of the muffins in the clear display case. “Come back in half an hour, and I’ll make you your coffee anyway you want it.”

Tall and Attractive pursed his lips. “I’m looking for Miss Gabriella Teller.” He spoke with a slight accent – Russian, was Napoleon’s guess, the rounded vowels husky, and didn’t that just complement that jawline with devastating effect. Napoleon almost regretted having to turn him away.

“Gaby? She’s not coming in this morning until seven-thirty.” Napoleon moved on to the croissants. “Which is when we open,” he added, helpfully, when Very Attractive and Maybe Russian still did not seem inclined to leave.

There was an awkward pause. Then, “I’ll come back at seven-thirty.”

Napoleon looked up from arranging the buttery pastry, his third most charming smile already in place, and hesitated. Blond and Still Very Attractive was biting his lip. Standing in the middle of Napoleon’s empty shop, with his hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans, he looked very lost indeed.

“No, wait,” Napoleon found himself calling out instead, as he slid out from behind the counter ruefully. “Sorry about that. Busy with the day’s prep, gearing up for the morning rush hour, you know how it is.”

Really Far Too Attractive looked baffled now. Up close, Napoleon could see that his eyes were blue beneath the brim of his grey cap.

“So, introductions, and then you can wait for Gaby at one of the tables until she comes in.” Napoleon held out his hand, and grinned when Blondie took it. “Napoleon Solo. Only my mother calls me Napoleon, though.”

“Illya.” Illya’s grip was firm was he took Napoleon’s hand, his callused palm warm and dry. He smiled. “Thank you, Solo.”

“How about I make you a coffee as well, while you wait. On the house. Think of it as an apology for my curtness.” Napoleon gestured at the menu on the wall behind the counter. “Anything in particular catch your eye?”

Illya shrugged. His gaze flicked down the length of Napoleon’s body, before darting to the menu. “What would you recommend?”

Napoleon felt his grin widen. “Tell you what. How about I make something up just for you?”

Illya returned his gaze to Napoleon’s face, where it settled. He shrugged, the corners of his lips quirking. “I don’t see why not.”

“Great.” Napoleon let out a breath he hadn’t been aware that he was holding. “Any allergies I should know of before I start?” he asked as he slipped back behind the counter and reached for a cup. “Raspberries? Hazelnuts? Lactose intolerance?”

“No, no allergies.”

“Fantastic.” Napoleon pumped his selection of syrups into the cup, then poured out a measure of the good, full fat milk to steam. The espresso machine whirred to life as the coffee began to percolate. He hummed as he whipped the milk, mixed the milk into the espresso, and watched the black liquid lighten to a rich brown. He carefully spooned the milk froth over the drink, before indicating with a raised palm that Illya should remain by the counter just where he was. Napoleon ducked into the kitchen in the back, and returned with a block of bittersweet chocolate which he grated generously over the milk froth. He added a pinch of powdered nutmeg too, on a whim, and finished with sliding a stick of cinnamon into the drink.

“Tell me what you think,” he said as he pushed the cup towards Illya, suddenly and inexplicably nervously.

Illya had watched Napoleon work with a quiet intensity. He now reached for the proffered cup, his foreunse catching on a stray shaving of chocolate. He lapped the chocolate off his finger absently, the pink tip of his tongue darting out, tantalising, before he raised the cup to his mouth and took a sip. When he lowered the cup again, the froth had left a milk moustache on his upper lip.

Napoleon clasped his hands behind his back, to keep himself from reaching out to the wipe the froth away with his thumb.

“It is good,” Illya offered with a wide smile. The smile crinkled the corners of his eyes and, with the milk moustache, made him look surprisingly boyish. “Very, very good,” he amended as he took another sip, eyes fluttering briefly shut.

“I’m glad to hear it,” Napoleon laughed. He gestured broadly at the tables, adding, “Why don’t you make yourself comfortable while I finish setting up? I’ll let Gaby know that you’re looking for her when she comes in.” He then busied himself with wiping off the nozzle of the milk steamer, because he now had thirteen minutes before they opened for business, and because hitting on a first-time customer was a new low which Napoleon wasn’t quite willing to stoop to just yet. (Even if the customer did seem interested.)

Besides, Napoleon rather hoped that Illya would return.

Gaby came in at half past seven sharp, a bare minute before the first of their customers. Napoleon made espressos and long blacks for the first three orders, popped a _pain du chocolat_ in the toaster to be heated for the fourth, and turned towards Gaby as she joined him behind the counter.

“You’ve got a visitor,” Napoleon told her as he watched her put on her apron. “Tall, blond and good-looking at table three.” He jerked his thumb vaguely at the corner of the shop by the window, where Illya had seated himself. “Came in this morning at seven, looking for you.”

She glanced up at that, craning her neck towards the table which Napoleon had indicated, where Illya was now unabashedly watching them over the rim of his cup. He had removed his cap, set it down by his elbow on the small and round faux marble table top, and the sun left streaks in his hair where it filtered through the window glass, a warm honey gold. Napoleon made himself glance away, and focussed once more on Gaby. 

“Oh,” said Gaby as she finished pulling her hair up in a ponytail.  

Napoleon paused, studying her closer. “Trouble?” he asked, because Napoleon always trusted his instincts, and there was a note in her voice which felt, well, _off_.

“Oh, no,” she shrugged, her shoulders careless, and made to move out from behind the counter. “We’re working on a project together. I asked him to meet me here, but we may have gotten the time mixed up.” She smiled cheekily at Napoleon, tossing him a quick wave over her shoulder. “Be right back in a bit, boss.”

“Don’t take too long,” he called out mischievously.

Gaby turned to stick her tongue out at him. “I wouldn’t trust you with the morning rush.”

“I was running the place on my own before I hired you, I’ll have you know.”

“Yes, and it’s amazing how this place survived in those three months,” was her laughing response, before she walked briskly towards Illya’s corner.

Napoleon plated the heated _pain du chocolat_ for customer number four, took the orders for customers five to eight, and watched from the corner of his eye as Gaby took the other seat at Illya’s table. They were speaking, too softly for Napoleon to overhear, their heads tilted close. At one point, Gaby tilted her head back and laughed, while Illya took a long swallow of his drink. Napoleon watched the bob of Illya’s throat just above the neckline of Illya’s black turtleneck, steamed soy milk for customer number nine’s soy cappuccino, and told himself that he was not at all curious.

Gaby returned to the counter shortly thereafter, taking over Napoleon’s place at the counter and punching in customer number ten’s order of a skinny vanilla latte. They worked without speaking another word to each other, until a short lull settled over Napoleon’s shop after customer number sixteen.

“What –” Napoleon started, just as Gaby turned to him with a teasing smile and said, “So –”

They paused. Gaby’s smile grew decidedly more impish, and she clapped her hands. “I knew it – you were dying from curiosity.”

“I was not,” he retorted as he picked up a tea towel and began wiping the counter down. “Merely concerned about your safety in the hands of strange men, that’s all.”

“Hah,” she scoffed. There was another brief pause as Gaby neatened the row of unused coffee cups, which had gone somewhat askew in the frenzy of the first morning rush. “Illya’s a photographer. He’s agreed to do a shoot for my dance group. We’re still trying to work out the creative details.”

Well, that made sense. Gaby had told him, when she had answered his advertisement for an assistant barista, that she was working towards degree in dance – ballet, specifically, she had added as she laughingly went _en pointe_ in the middle of her interview, and Napoleon had decided there and then to hire her for her irreverence. Still, there was something which he could not quite put his finger on. He set the tea towel aside and turned to study her closely.

Gaby jerked her chin towards the front of the counter. “Look sharp, Napoleon.”

Illya hesitated as he drew up before them. He raised an eyebrow, and Napoleon promptly decided that whatever it was that was troubling him about Gaby could wait.

“I thought you said only your mother called you Napoleon,” Illya remarked, his voice dry. The corners of his lips twitched.

“Gaby’s special,” Napoleon informed him loftily, and was rewarded with a full smile, warm and amused on the generous curve of Illya’s lip. Napoleon returned it with a smile of his own, his most charming one, the one he usually reserved for getting out of scrapes, or for convincing people to like him.

“Come by again tomorrow if you want some more coffee,” he added impulsively, after Illya had thanked him again for the morning’s coffee and dropped some change into the tip jar. Illya inclined his head first at Gaby, then at Napoleon, before walking out of the door.

Napoleon watched as Illya went, because really, while Napoleon did not hit on his first-time customers, Illya’s ass still looked fantastic in those jeans, and Illya’s legs still looked long and lean as he strode out of Napoleon’s shop, and Napoleon had always been one to appreciate the pretty things in life, after all.

The next day, to Napoleon’s delight, Illya did.

=-=-=

You see, Napoleon had decided about two years ago that he had grown rather bored of flitting from heist to heist. Sure, he had been good at it, and there was nothing in Napoleon’s experience that was quite like the giddy exhilaration of executing a flawless heist, but it had all gotten quite stale after eight years in the game. Napoleon had found himself growing tired of living from hotel room to hotel room, suitcase to suitcase, with nothing more to ground him when the exhilaration inevitably wore away than a convenient warm body or three and his increasingly darker thoughts.

Things had become – although Napoleon would only admit this after he was at least five stiff whiskies away from sober and feeling particularly maudlin – somewhat lonely.

He had stumbled upon the shop by sheer chance. He had been between jobs, on his way to the deli that was two blocks away from his hotel for breakfast, when he had spotted the tired _For Sale_ poster pasted on the dusty window just across the road.  The water-smudged ink (for it had rained the night before) had advertised the empty shop and an apartment just above for his taking, and Napoleon had been _tempted_.

In the end, Napoleon had consolidated a portion of his assets, used the resulting cash to purchase and renovation both shop and apartment. Business had been slow at first, picked up rapidly only after the first couple of weeks as word got around that there was coffee worth drinking and a barista who was more than easy on the eye. Napoleon had hired Gaby three months later.

He didn’t tell anyone that he’d bought the apartment above the shop. The way Napoleon saw it, a man in his profession could never have too many safehouses.

These days, Napoleon’s day tended to follow a pattern: He came in at six when it was not Gaby’s turn to do so, swept the floors and cleaned the espresso machines and did all that generally needed to be done before a coffee shop like his could open at half past seven. He flirted up a storm with the customers who were susceptible to his charms while fixing cups of fancy coffee, because Napoleon had always been good at multi-tasking, and besides, it was good for the business. (His mother had taught him that he’d catch more flies with honey, and Napoleon had always believed in this old adage.) The shop closed at six in the evening, with clean-up taking another hour. Napoleon’s evenings were generally his own to do as he wished, dinner in his apartment that he ate by the television or with a book or the day’s papers, a long drink at one of the up and coming bars in the city with a new pretty thing and the promise of a fun romp between the sheets later. It all still didn’t feel quite right, but most days, it was enough.

And if he still took the occasional commission on the side – wetting his beak, as Sanders, his usual fixer these days, liked to describe it – well, let’s just say that Napoleon was _very_ good at multi-tasking.

=-=-=

He received a blank e-mail from Sanders on Tuesday night.

On Wednesday, Napoleon waited patiently for the usual morning lull, which typically occurred between ten thirty and eleven thirty, just before the lunchtime traffic started to trickle in. He informed Gaby that he would be stepping out of the shop for the next half an hour, _emergency errands which just needed doing, you know how it is,_ and asked her twice in mock earnestness if she would be alright with minding the shop on her own, for the pleasure of seeing her roll her eyes as she waved him out of the door.

Then, Napoleon bought a burner phone. He took it with him to Prospect Park, and dialled a number he knew by heart. Sanders answered on the third ring.

“It’s Napoleon Solo,” Napoleon told him. “I received your e-mail.”

Sanders’ next words were brisk. “There’s a job offer for you. The client wants you specifically, said he heard about you from the Monaco job and the one in Marseilles last year.”

“So let’s hear it, then.”

There was a soft _whoosh_ of breath on the other side of the line. “Can’t tell you much now. I don’t have many details.”

“It’s not like you to keep me in suspense, Sanders,” Napoleon observed, leaning forward in his seat on the weathered park bench. “Spit it out.”

“All I know is that the client wants you to acquire something for him. Won’t tell me who the mark is, though, or what’s the thing that needs acquiring. Says he wants to meet you first, tell you in person.”

Curiouser and curiouser. “That’s not how it usually goes.”

“Don’t I know it,” Sanders snorted.

“Cops?”

There was a pause before Sanders replied. “Doesn’t have the feeling of cops to me, and you know my gut has never been wrong before.” His hoarse reply had a note of hesitance to it, gaining strength only towards the end.

Now, here’s the thing: Napoleon wouldn’t trust Sanders even half as far as Napoleon could throw him, but Sander s knew a good deal when he saw one. Wouldn’t kill the metaphorical goose that laid his damned golden eggs, so as to speak. And a, well, _specialist_ of Napoleon’s calibre could bring him golden eggs the size of ostrich eggs. (Had, in fact, actually done so once, after a memorable run in Copenhagen.) Napoleon was pretty certain that Sanders wouldn’t betray him to law enforcement, simply because Sanders stood to gain more from his cut of the commissions fetched by someone as good as Napoleon was.

Besides, it had been a while since the last heist, and Napoleon was beginning to feel a touch restless.

Napoleon took a deep breath. “How much are we talking about?”

Sanders named a figure, and Napoleon whistled.

“When’s this meeting?”

“Tonight. The client’s in New York City right now, and so am I.” Sanders named a venue and a time, and added, dryly, “I’d tell you to dress sharp, but I know that a damned peacock like yourself would do so anyway.”

“I do hate disappointing,” Napoleon replied, and promised to be there. Then, he stood up to walk back to his shop, dropping the phone into the first public trash can that he passed on the way.

=-=-=

Illya was already in his shop when Napoleon got back. He had been coming in every day since the first day for a week and a half, although at any common time or pattern that Napoleon could discern: ten o’clock on some days, three o’clock on other days, seconds after opening, minutes before closing, and once, at the peak of the lunch hour crush.

Napoleon would meet Illya at the counter each time he came in to take his order (a boring, boring, _boring_ black coffee with two sugars), before waving it aside in place of making Illya another custom drink. Illya would roll his eyes and mutter about the utter impossibility of getting the coffee you ordered at Napoleon’s shop, _do you not listen to your customers, Solo_ and _I do not understand how you have any customers at all_ , but he would always accept Napoleon’s latest proffered offering, and Illya’s tiny smile after the first wary sip would be all the encouragement that Napoleon needed, really.

Then, Napoleon would take five minutes from the counter – although, as Gaby had pointed out at the end of the first week with a fond smirk, Napoleon’s five minutes with Illya tended to be closer to fifteen – and he’d join Illya at the latter’s table. They’d share personal anecdotes from their respective years of growing up (with Napoleon staying light on the detail when his anecdotes touched on his criminal career), observations on literature and philosophy and politics, sardonic smirks on Illya’s part and charming grins on Napoleon’s. Gaby would join them sometimes, when there weren’t any customers demanding her attention.

(Napoleon learned on Friday that Illya had a Marxist phase in his university days, because the boy whom Illya had a crush on then had been enamoured with the teaching of Marx. Napoleon likened Illya to the Red Peril as he poured Illya a mojito-inspired iced coffee, heavy on the mint and lime, and grinned each time he recalled that Illya’s crush had been a _boy_.

On Saturday afternoon, Napoleon presented Illya with a truffle risotto he had cooked, followed by stories of his early days in the kitchen. Illya had snorted, _tossing things together like cowboy, I am amazed that kitchen was still standing_ , but he had been full of praise for the dish too, and Napoleon had made Illya a chocolate-orange-gingerbread latte while he tried to ignore the way Illya’s teasing smile warmed him to his toes.)

Now, Illya and Gaby were clustered at Illya’s table, heads close together in furious conversation. They startled at the jingle of the bell on the shop door, and twisted around to regard Napoleon as Napoleon entered his shop, wide-eyed with the distinct look of having been caught at something.  

“You know, when the two of you look at me like that, I start to worry for the world,” Napoleon remarked casually as he slid behind the counter and slipped on his apron. “Peril, don’t you leave just yet. I haven’t made you your coffee.”

Illya picked up the cup that was already on his table and took a sip pointedly. “I already have coffee. Unlike you, Cowboy, Gaby knows how to listen to customer.”

“Ah, but it’s not _my_ coffee, now, is it?” Napoleon pointed out, blithely ignoring the second half of Illya’s rejoinder and Gaby’s stifled laugh.

This time, he blended coconut milk with the regular dairy before heating the creamy mixture. Melted palm sugar syrup, acquired over the weekend from a contact who had had been visiting his area of town after a jaunt in South East Asia (Napoleon had been impressed, on a professional level, by the size of the diamonds she had made away with), went into the cup, its deep aroma caramel rich and deliciously complex, followed by a steaming cyclone of espresso and milk. Napoleon scattered a generous layer of toasted coconut shavings over the frothy top, and set the drink down before Illya with a flourish.

“What is in it?” Illya frowned, but he took a sip all the same without waiting for Napoleon’s reply.

Napoleon beamed at the smile which had crept, involuntarily, to Illya’s lips when Illya lowered the cup.

“Magical deliciousness,” he said, as he pulled a third chair up to Illya’s table. “Now, what is it that the two of you were talking about? You know how I hate being left out of the loop.”

“You’re nosy,” Illya shot back, and scowled at Gaby when she elbowed him.

“What Illya meant to say,” said Gaby with a long look at Illya, before directing her gaze back to Napoleon, “was that he is interested in visiting the Stanislav Plutenko exhibition that’s currently showing, but he can’t find anyone to go with him this weekend.” She smiled sweetly. “I have suggested that he ask you, because you like art.” She gestured at the framed prints which Napoleon had lined the walls of his shop with.

Illya was glaring at Gaby. Napoleon grinned. “I take it that you don’t mind covering for me?”

“Not at all,” she replied.

“Well then, Peril, how about it?” He directed his best entreating look at Illya who had, Napoleon noticed with great delight, gone a little pink-tinged in the cheeks.

“No,” said Illya shortly, as he took a hasty swallow of the drink Napoleon had made for him.

Napoleon pouted. “Why, Peril, I’m starting to think that you do not like me.”

“I don’t –” blurted Illya, and the pink tinge in his cheeks got a touch more red. It was the most delicious sight Napoleon had seen in days. “I mean, I don’t not like you,” Illya corrected himself hastily.

Napoleon could feel his grin stretching wide across his cheeks. “It’s a date this Saturday, then,” he said, and leaned across the table impulsively to plant a quick kiss on Illya’s cheek. “Come by again tomorrow,” he added as he leapt to his feet, and ignored Illya’s splutter as he sauntered back to the counter to serve the first of the lunch hour customers who had just come in.

Later, when Illya dropped a piece of notepaper with his number scrawled on it into the tip jar, Napoleon couldn’t help but laugh.

=-=-=

In his early days of heisting and thievery, Napoleon had cultivated a healthy practice of arriving at his business meetings much earlier than was strictly necessary. It gave him time to case the place for its exits before trouble even had a chance to start, always a wise thing to do in his line of work. Consequently, he was already seated when Sanders entered the quiet Italian restaurant that had been decided upon, closely followed by another man whom Napoleon assumed was the mysterious client.

He stood to greet them as they approached.

“Alexander Waverly,” said the client as he shook Napoleon’s proffered hand. Waverly was British, Napoleon noted, his accent as crisp as the three piece suit he wore (Dolce & Gabbana, was Napoleon’s guess).

Beside them, Sanders gestured that they should take their seats.

They traded polite pleasantries over the first three courses, the etiquette of such meetings demanding that business only be broached at dessert. Napoleon watched impatiently as the waiter set out the tiramisu with precise movements, but he allowed the waiter to leave before he turned to Waverly. “I hear from Sanders that you’re looking to acquire something.”

“You hear right,” said Waverly, who had already begun to eat his tiramisu. “You should eat your cake, Solo. It’s really rather good.”

Napoleon humoured him with forkful, and waited. When no further answer seemed forthcoming, he continued conversationally, “I can’t say I’ve heard anything about what it is that you’re looking to acquire.”

Waverly nodded at Sanders, who removed two photographs from a manila envelope and placed them in the centre of their table. Napoleon peered at them curiously: a man and a woman, smiling politely, the photograph clearly a posed one; and a statuette of Venus, one which, if Napoleon remembered correctly, was presently in a private collection. The Vinciguerra collection, to be precise, which probably meant that the couple in the first photograph were –

“Rudi and Victoria Vinciguerra,” Waverly confirmed, interrupting Napoleon’s reverie. “The Vinciguerra family, as I’m sure you already know, have one of the largest private collections of classical antiquities. And that,” Waverly said, hovering a finger over the second photograph, “is what I would like to acquire.”

Napoleon studied the photographs carefully, taking in their glossy spill of colours against the starched white of the table cloth. Rudi Vinciguerra looked smug, well-groomed, unconcerned, every inch the playboy which the Italian press had painted him the last time Napoleon was in Rome. Rudi’s wife, Victoria, was tall, poised, elegant, and her cool gaze belied a sharp intelligence even through the photograph. The statuette, Napoleon knew from his experience in dealing with antiquities, would probably be approximately half the length of his forearm, a relatively small piece of marble work, easy enough to smuggle between countries if it came to that. Its carving was delicate, the detail exquisite. From the photograph, it appeared that the statuette had been further mounted on a small, wooden plinth; a relatively recent addition by its current owners, Napoleon suspected.

Napoleon had not dealt with the Vinciguerra family before, but word on the grapevine was that the Vinciguerra family also had one of the most tightly protected private collections, too. He hid his smile behind a sip of wine. The excitement that came with planning a heist had always been a heady, intoxicating thing.

“The Vinciguerra family owns a shipping company based in Rome, which is where I’m sure their collection, including this particular beauty, is also kept.” Napoleon regarded Waverly steadily. “This would, I’m sure you realise, require a bit of travelling from New York.”

“Oh yes, of course,” said Waverly, and shrugged. “Not to worry – I’ll be paying for the price of your air tickets, too.”

Napoleon raised an eyebrow, but took another sip of his wine all the same. “Is there a particular date which you would like to receive your acquisition by, Mr Waverly?”

“I was thinking, perhaps you could do it this Saturday. I’ll arrange for a pick-up in Rome on Sunday.”

Napoleon blinked before he could stop himself. He darted a swift glance at Waverly who looked more amused than Napoleon felt was warranted.

“The Vinciguerra family will be hosting a party on Friday night, at their family estate, to honour all the people who have contributed to their company,” continued Waverly blithely. “It’s an annual affair, one of the biggest parties they throw each year, and my sources tell me that that’s usually when their security is the most open. I imagine you would find no better time than the party to retrieve the item for me.”

Waverly took the manila envelope from Sanders, and returned the two photographs into its pocket before offering the same to Napoleon. “I have already made arrangements for you to fly out to Rome tomorrow morning. Inside this envelope, you will find a plan of the Vinciguerra estate, where my sources tell me that the item is stored, and what I have managed to find out about the security which you may find there.” He smiled laconically. “It always amazes me how much information a bit of money can buy you.”

Napoleon took the envelope and weighed it contemplatively in his hands. There was something that seemed entirely left of centre about this meeting, although he could not quite pin down what it was that prickled his instinct so and left him feeling out of sorts. But Sanders was right, Waverly didn’t feel like law enforcement – Napoleon had learnt to tell, too – and his wasn’t the most unreasonable commission Napoleon had taken on by far.

Waverly nodded when Napoleon accepted the envelope. “You’ll be contacted on Sunday in Rome about the pick-off. Oh, and Solo,” he said as he signalled for the check, “I would also like the wooden plinth which the Vinciguerra have so kindly added to the statuette, please.”

=-=-=

Napoleon made four important calls that night. The first two were made on another burner phone, to contacts he maintained in Italy.

The third call was made on his cell phone, to Gaby, to explain that he would be away until Monday, maybe Tuesday, a family emergency, and again, would she mind terribly if she covered him for the week to come?

“You’re a bastard, Solo,” she told him around a yawn.

“I’m sorry, darling. You know how family emergencies are.”

“I meant waking me up at one-thirty in the morning.” She paused. “And yes, the other thing, too. This isn’t the first time, Solo, and you know it. There were those three days last month, and a full two weeks the month before.”

“I’ll make it up to you,” Napoleon promised her hastily. “Don’t I always?”

“You had better,” she said darkly. There was another pause, longer, this time. “Wait, what about Illya?”

“I’ll handle it,” Napoleon told her, and hung up like a coward, before she could say anything more.

The fourth was to Illya. Napoleon paced the length of his sitting room nervously, counting the number of rings it took for Illya to answer his call.

“Peril, it’s me,” he blurted when the call was picked up on the seventh ring.

Napoleon heard a sharp intake of breath, a soft exhale. “Cowboy?” Illya sounded alert, despite the hour, but also confused, hesitant. “Do you not know what time it is?”

“Far too late, I know,” Napoleon replied ruefully. He took a deep breath of his own, raked his fingers through his hair. “Hey, listen, I’m afraid that I’m going to have to cancel on our date this Saturday. A family emergency just came up. I’ll be out of town for almost a week.” He hesitated. “I’m sorry,” he added, because he was.

“Oh,” said Illya. In the silence that followed, Napoleon could hear the distinct tapping of fingers typing rapidly across a keyboard.

“Illya?” he tried again, when the silence had stretched just long enough to turn a shade awkward.

The typing stopped abruptly. “No, it’s okay,” said Illya. He sounded distracted. “I was going to find a way to tell you tomorrow that I cannot keep our date too. Last minute photography assignment in Europe. I expect it will also last for a week.”

Napoleon laughed shakily. “I guess it’s probably just as well, then.” He strode back to his bedroom, where he regarded the suitcase he had placed on the foot of his bed, packed. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m really, really sorry about this, I truly am. I was looking forward to our first date.”

A soft sigh skittered across the line. “So was I.”

“I’ll take you for something better when we’re both back in town.”

“Better than Plutenko?” Illya asked. There was a teasing lilt to his voice, now; it made Napoleon smile.

“I’m a man of many surprises,” he told Illya mock-gravely, and laughed when Illya laughed. “See you next week, Peril.”

Napoleon listened to Illya’s quiet goodbye. Then he hung up, picked up his suitcase, and left his apartment to board the taxi he had waiting outside to take him to the JFK.

=-=-=

The Vinciguerra estate family was nestled between the edge of an aging cobblestone village and a private woodland, approximately ten miles from central Rome. From Waverly’s intelligence and his own bit of scouting ahead on Friday, Napoleon knew that the estate comprised two key buildings. The first, tall and grand before a sweeping lawn, was where the family lived. The second, a modern addition to the estate, was a short concrete block, built more for function than for aesthetic. It was in the second building that the family stored their antiquities which were not otherwise displayed. Including, if Waverly’s sources were correct, Napoleon’s target

Unfortunately for him, Vinciguerra’s security, even at apparently its most open, was still too tight for Napoleon to gain access the grounds without an invitation to the party. Napoleon had toyed briefly with the notion of lifting an invitation from one of the other guests, before discarding it in favour of going unnoticed. A location as secluded and exclusive as the Vinciguerra estate meant that new faces would be singled out quickly, made chances of a quick and discreet escape slim to none.

Fortunately for him, there was an old water tower just outside the fenced grounds of the Vinciguerra estate.

Napoleon paused for breath as he climbed onto the platform of the water tower. He set his bag down beside him, and stared out absently at the distant flicker of the party lights that lit up Vinciguerra’s front lawn. Then, he retrieved the crossbow from his bag, as well as the quarrel he had modified just for this job by a carefully-calculated length of wire attached to its base. He secured the free end of the wire to the frame of the water tower now, fitted the quarrel into the crossbow, and took aim.

By his calculations, he had exactly one minutes and thirteen seconds before the guards were likely to turn a corner and see him.

Napoleon fired. The quarrel flew in a perfect arc across the walls and grounds of the estate, hooking with a dull metallic _clunk_ between the slats of the air vent on the roof of the second building.

Napoleon counted ten seconds as he waited to see if the sound had had alerted any of the guards. When none came running, he shrugged. He slung his bag onto his shoulder, fixed a zip line trolley onto the wire, took a deep breath, and leapt off the platform of water tower.

The difference in height between the water tower and the squat building ensured that the ride was a swift one. Napoleon released the trolley when his legs came over the roof of the second building, dropped and rolled out into a crouch.

He only noticed Illya after he stood. 

Illya had been standing beside the air vents. He watched Napoleon now, his eyes unreadable.

Napoleon felt as though he had been sucker-punched.

“I guess you’re not just a photographer,” Napoleon offered into the heavy silence. He gestured vaguely at Illya’s black jacket and jeans, at his black turtleneck and boots and gloves, at the dark cap which Illya had jammed over his fair hair.

“And I guess you’re not just a barista,” responded Illya tightly. He nodded at Napoleon’s equally dark garb.

“No, I’m not,” Napoleon acknowledged weakly, and closed his eyes against hysterical bubble of laughter that welled in his throat. Eventually, he opened his eyes again, and forced his feet to cross the last two steps towards the air vent, and to the padlocked hatch door beside it.

Illya was still watching Napoleon, his shoulders stiff, his posture wary. He pressed his lips in a thin, bloodless line.

Napoleon avoided Illya’s eyes as he reached into his jacket for his lock-picks and knelt to pick the lock. Twenty-three seconds, and the padlock fell away with a muted _click_.

Illya remained silent.

Napoleon hesitated as he grasped the handle of the hatch door. “Why are you here?”

Illya stirred, and something in the way he held his body seemed to soften. His lips twisted in a half-smile. “Now is not time for us to chat, Cowboy,” he said. He wrapped his fingers around Napoleon’s on the handle and lifted the hatch door. “I am guessing you are looking for Vinciguerra’s vault. Conveniently, so am I.” He nodded at the opened hatch. “After you.”

Napoleon clenched his jaw as he carefully climbed into the ventilation system of the building. He remained silent as he crawled ahead on his hands and knees, keenly aware that any sound they made now would travel through the air shafts, their echoes giving them away. Illya was equally silent as he crawled behind Napoleon, a grim and wordless shadow. When Napoleon chanced a quick glance over his shoulder, he realised that Illya was frowning. It was the same frown Illya had worn on that first fateful morning in Napoleon’s shop, and for that second time that night, Napoleon found himself having to bite back the wild urge to laugh and to laugh.

It took another seventeen minutes, by Napoleon’s reckoning, before they turned into the air shaft which ran outside the vault. He carefully pushed the ventilation shield free, his right arm darting out of the shaft to catch the shield as it fell, before it could clatter noisily onto the floor below. Then, bracing his free hand on the edge of the air shaft and its opposite leg on the adjoining wall, Napoleon carefully manoeuvred himself out of the shaft in a controlled cartwheel, before dropping the final metre or so to land noiselessly on the balls of his feet. He stooped to set the ventilation shield down against the wall, and straightened in time to see Illya descend smoothly from the air shaft in much the same way as Napoleon had, standing to his feet smoothly.

Napoleon felt the corners of his lips lift involuntarily into self-deprecatory smirk. If he had wanted further proof that Illya was more than just the photographer whom Napoleon had tried to date at his shop, Napoleon would have had just received his desired proof in spades. And, despite everything, Napoleon still wanted very much to date the attractive, deceptive, competent and clearly dangerous bastard.

Again, Napoleon choked back a laugh. He had the distinct suspicion that he would not be able to stop laughing, were he to start. Instead, he stepped towards the vault. “This,” he found himself saying, although he could not quite explain _why,_ “is a Swiss-built 7010 model. Still –” and he gestured that Illya should hold his palms out just so, deposited the bulk of his safe-cracking tools onto Illya’s outstretched hands and tried to ignore how Illya’s confused expression could almost be called _adorable_ , “very difficult to open, but it’s not –” he listened intently to the soft _clicks_ as he manoeuvred his picks, carefully now, careful, careful. Finally, something in the door _loosened_. “Impossible,” he concluded.

“The people who designed this model,” Napoleon continued as he began turning the wheel to open the door of the vault, “were not very good at stealing things. I, however,” he said smugly as the lock gave a final beep, and the bolts slid home in rapid succession, “am.”

The heavy door swung ponderously open. Napoleon stepped back, satisfied.

“Did you deactivate alarm?” asked Illya.

“Model 7010 doesn’t have an alarm,” Napoleon retorted, just as the sirens began to sound overhead. He winced.

Illya rolled his eyes. “Loving your work, Cowboy,” he said, as he withdrew a revolver from his jacket, with a silencer already screwed on, and turned his back to the vault. “You go into vault, get whatever it is you came for. I’ll cover you.”

Napoleon clasped a quick hand on Illya’s shoulder in thanks, before sprinting into the vault. He absently recalled that, according to Waverly’s notes, the floor of the vault had been rigged with weight sensors. Well, he supposed that didn’t matter now, either way.

The statuette had been placed on a series of freestanding shelves in the far right corner of the vault. Napoleon dove for it, just as the gunfire started, loud, reverberating claps in the enclosed space in spite of the silencer.  He wrapped the statuette with a large piece of felt, and tucked it safely in his bag.

There were four bodies sprawled in the corridor outside the vault when Napoleon emerged. Illya darted a swift glance at him, before jerking his gaze coolly back towards the corridor. “We should go,” he said, cocking his gun. A flurry of footsteps could be heard in the distance, towards their right. “What escape route do you have?”

Napoleon grimaced. “I was going to leave by the roof. That’s shot now.”

“They would have discovered wire,” Illya agreed easily. “So we go another way. Can you shoot?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” Illya lunged for one of the guns that lay beside the fallen guards, passed the retrieved firearm to Napoleon. Then, he gave Napoleon a light shove towards the left of the corridor. “This way.”

There was a large, glass window at the end of the left side of the corridor. “Duck,” Illya growled, and fired at the window. The glass shattered.

Together, they leapt towards the grass that was two floors below. The impact pushed the air out of Napoleon’s lungs, made his eyes water as he tucked and rolled. Still, he recovered first, tugging Illya up and pushing him towards the chain-link fence around the perimeter of the estate. “Go, go, go.”

Napoleon fumbled for the wire-cutters in his jacket as they sprinted towards the fence. He began snipping at the chain-links of the fence, one, two, three, and shit, this was going too slowly, but the fence was also too high for them to scale without being caught like sitting ducks, with barbed wire looped on the top, besides, and –

“What is that?” Illya hissed. He sounded incredulous.

“Super-hardened boron, sharpened by a CO2 laser,” Napoleon snapped.

“Huh,” said Illya, and stepped in front of Napoleon with a small, black rod. The rod lit up, a dull orange, and sliced through the chain-links like a hot knife through butter. “CO2 laser,” he added simply, as he pushed the cut-portion of the fence away and indicated with a sharp jerk of his chin that Napoleon should follow.

They made it into the woodlands just as the searchlights snapped on.

“What were you going to do next?” Illya panted as they scrambled deeper into the trees.

“Make it back to the village, hotwire some transport back to Rome,” Napoleon gasped.

Illya shook his head. “Fortunately, I already have transport.” He paused, then added, a seeming afterthought. “I suppose we could share.”

Illya’s transport, as it turned out, when they finally arrived at where Illya had hidden it just off the side of the country road, was a Vespa scooter.

“What,” said Napoleon flatly.

“You can always walk to Rome,” Illya suggested, as he wheeled the scooter towards the road, where he swung a long leg over the seat.

“Ha, ha, ha, aren’t you funny,” Napoleon retorted as he climbed onto the seat behind Illya and wrapped his arms firmly around Illya’s waist.

They rode back to Rome in silence, the strong curve of Illya’s back snug against Napoleon’s chest, so very warm in the chilly night.

=-=-=

“Via de Corso,” Napoleon told Illya when they reached central Rome. “I’m at the Grand Plaza Hotel.”

The pulled up at the side entrance of the hotel some eight minutes later.

Illya remained silent as Napoleon hoisted himself off the scooter.

Napoleon hesitated as he stood in front of the hotel. He was half hard in his pants, had been for most of their ride back to Rome. _Adrenaline_ , he thought absently. _Endorphins._

“Would you like to come up with me?” was what he said.

=-=-=

They lasted right up to the door of Napoleon’s room, when Illya’s hands curled around Napoleon’s hips while Napoleon bent to feed his key-card into the reader, and fit his front to Napoleon’s ass.

“Fuck,” Napoleon swore, and dropped the card.

It took Napoleon two more shaky tries before the door clicked open and they tumbled into the room. Napoleon whirled around and slammed Illya up against the inside of the door, and pressed their lips together in a ferocious kiss. Illya responded in kind, biting at Napoleon’s lip before licking _in_.

Napoleon groaned when Illya snaked a hand between them to grope Napoleon through his pants. He tore away from the kiss, his fingers clumsy as they fumbled with the zipper of Illya’s jacket. “Fuck,” he swore again, “take this off, your hands, I want – ”

Illya growled as he obliged, before dragging Napoleon back into another kiss. He gripped Napoleon’s shoulders and spun them around, and now it was Napoleon’s turn to be pressed against the door while Illya nipped a line up his neck. “Your mouth,” Illya murmured between each nip. “Always so teasing, so filthy.” He nosed at the hollow behind Napoleon’s jaw. “The things I’ve wanted to do with your mouth.” He latched his mouth on the sensitive skin and sucked.

Napoleon moaned. “Bed,” he said as he began to walk Illya backwards, his voice hoarse, his fingers tearing at Illya’s belt buckle, “let’s move this to the bed, why are we still wearing _clothes_ , fuck”

They tossed their clothes carelessly on the carpet. Illya went easily enough when Napoleon shoved him backwards onto the mattress, leaning on his elbows as he watched with Napoleon with hooded eyes.

Napoleon gave him a beatific smile as he positioned himself between the obscene spread of Illya’s thighs. Illya’s cock nudged against Napoleon’s cheek, and Illya gave its length an experimental lick, instantly gratified by the way Illya dropped his head back with a strangled groan. He moved to the tip of Illya’s cock, lapped at the slit before wrapping his lips around the head and sucking down.

Illya’s hips bucked. The tip of his cock hit Napoleon’s throat, making him gag. Napoleon held Illya’s hips down and continued to suck, bobbing his head up and down, and watched as Illya gradually fell apart, his eyes screwed shut and his cheeks flushed, his lips kiss-swollen and red, a debauched Adonis.

Napoleon pulled off, smirking at Illya’s impatient whine. “Not yet,” he told Illya’s affronted glare. “I don’t know about you, Peril, but I like to take things slow.” He nuzzled at Illya’s balls, inhaling the musky scent that was Illya. Napoleon’s own cock was unbearably hard, and he ground his hips down into the mattress, seeking friction.

Illya’s fingers tangled in Napoleon’s hair, urged Napoleon up with a gentle tug. Illya dragged Nagpoleon down into another kiss, wet and sloppy, their lips sliding and teeth clashing. Then, without warning, Illya flipped them, rolling Napoleon underneath him and pinning Napoleon down on the bed with the weight of his body.

They were both panting hard when the kiss finally ended. Illya began to crawl down Napoleon’s body, licking and biting as he went. Napoleon shuddered as Illya nibbled a trail of kisses down the sensitive skin of Napoleon’s inner thigh, and couldn’t help the involuntary whimper that escaped his lips.

Illya caught Napoleon’s eye and grinned, a fucking _filthy_ grin. “I think I can manage slow,” he rasped as he wrapped his fingers around the base of Napoleon’s cock and slowly began to pump its length.

Napoleon shuddered a laugh. “Yeah? We’ll see about that.”

Illya held Napoleon’s gaze as he dipped his head lower, scraping his teeth across Napoleon’s perineum before licking across Napoleon’s rim. He tongued the tightly furled muscle, lapped at it in a steady, if languid, rhythm. Napoleon fell back against the pillows, biting back a yell.

Illya raised an eyebrow. “This slow enough for you, Cowboy?”

“Fuck,” Napoleon swore again, shakily, and gave himself over.

=-=-=

  Later, as they lay curled together on sweat-stained sheets, Napoleon finally gave in to impulse, and laughed.

Beside him, Illya propped his head up on an arm, and regarded Napoleon curiously. “What so funny?”

“Not quite the sort of first date I had in mind for us,” Napoleon snorted, trailing a playful finger down the washboard muscles of Illya’s stomach.

Illya cracked a grin. “I think I liked our first date,” he said, as he tugged Napoleon closer towards him. “But I am not sure it is better than Plutenko.”

“You have no romance in your soul,” Napoleon told Illya sadly, before he pulled Illya down for another kiss.

( _Stay_ , he whispered, much, much later, and Illya did.)

=-=-=

The next morning, Napoleon woke up first. He slid out of the bed and dressed, pausing to smooth his hand across the sinuous curve of Illya’s bared back when Illya began to stir.

“I’m going to get us some breakfast,” he whispered. “Go back to sleep.”

Illya blinked at Napoleon, and mumbled something in Russian before burying his head under a pillow. Napoleon chuckled indulgently. He pressed a fleeting kiss on Illya’s shoulder before quietly letting himself out of the room.

When he returned, Illya had dressed. To his surprise, Waverly was in his room too.  

 “What,” Napoleon began, and hesitated, uncertain.

Both men glanced up. Then, Illya looked away.

Waverly smiled politely. “Ah, Mr Solo, you’re right on time. I was just about to congratulate the both of you.” He was holding the statuette.

Napoleon set his and Illya’s cappuccinos, and the paper bag of _cornetto_ , down on the dressing table deliberately. “I am not entirely sure I follow you,” he said carefully.

“Oh, it’s quite simple, really,” said Waverly as he dropped himself into the one of the two armchairs in the room. “Well done, gentlemen, on your efforts last night in retrieving this rather splendid piece of art.” He held the statuette up and, with a sharp flick of his wrist, twisted at the plinth. Something _click_ -ed, and a memory stick fell out of the base of the plinth and into Waverly’s waiting palm.

Waverly’s smile broadened. He pocketed the memory stick and nodded at Illya. “Kuryakin, I do believe you’ve passed. You are now qualified for full agent status. You may report to the New York headquarters after your flight lands tomorrow.”

 _Kuryakin_ , Napoleon thought, weighing the word in his mind, and frowned as he watched Illya look away.

Waverly had settled into the armchair. “As for you, Mr Solo, I come bearing a job offer.”

“A job offer?” Napoleon repeated dumbly.

“Yes,” said Waverly. “Kuryakin and I, as you would probably have guessed by now, are from the same organisation. The United Network Command for Law and Enforcement, if you will, or U.N.C.L.E. for short.” He paused. “Don’t look so betrayed, Mr Solo. Kuryakin wasn’t briefed about your criminal background. His instructions were to secure the extraction of the agent who will be breaking into Vinciguerra’s vault and lifting this lovely statuette here.” He chuckled. “I dare say he wasn’t expecting you.”

“I’m not your agent,” Napoleon pointed out. His jaw ticked.

“No, not yet.” Waverly leaned forward in his seat, and rested his elbows on his thighs. “What I am offering you, Solo, is a place as a field agent in U.N.C.L.E., much like Kuryakin here is.”

Napoleon snorted. “I can’t say I’m finding your offer very attractive, Mr Waverly, if you don’t mind me saying it.”

Waverly stood up with a sigh. He placed the statuette on the dresser, beside the coffee and pastries Napoleon had brought in mere minutes before, and made for the decanter of scotch on the side table. “Did you know,” he said conversationally, as he poured two fingers of scotch into a tumbler, “that Sanders is CIA?”

Napoleon froze.

“No, I don’t suppose you did,” Waverly observed. “Quite a file they’ve been building on you. You’d be looking at fifteen years at least for grand larceny, is my guess, if you decline to join them when they finally bring you in. They’re very predictable like that, are the CIA.” He smiled humourlessly. “Sanders was most reluctant when I approached him about you. Fortunately, U.N.C.L.E. outranks the CIA.” He held out the tumbler of scotch towards Napoleon. “Drink?”

“No,” Napoleon declined sharply.

“Kuryakin?”

“No, thank you.”

Waverly shrugged. “U.N.C.L.E. doesn’t give a bloody damn about your criminal predilections,” he continued blithely. “We’re more invested in preserving the political and legal order of the world in the times when diplomacy fails. An organisation like ours has places for many different talents, and I’m sure you can see how we would dearly love to have talents like yours working with us.”

“If you say yes, you become our field agent, and the CIA shall not have any further hold over you, now or in the future. Kuryakin would be your partner, of course. We were already thinking of pairing the both of you up; the Vinciguerra affair was as much a test of your compatibility with each other as partners, as it was a test of your individual fit with the organisation. Your… physical involvement with each other was not foreseen, but my agent has been assessing the both of you for almost a fortnight, and she assures me that your involvement with each other is unlikely to have an adverse impact on your respective performances on the field.”

Napoleon shook his head. “Wait, your agent?”

“Why, Miss Teller, of course.”

Napoleon bit back a curse. “Hiring them rather young, aren’t you?”

Waverly regarded him calmly over the rim of the tumbler. “Ms Teller was recruited under extraordinary circumstances. You could always ask her about it, if you do join us.”

“And what if I say no?”

Waverly shrugged again. “We part here and lead our own merry, separate lives.  Contrary to what you’re probably thinking, we’re not in the business of blackmailing people into becoming our agents. We believe that the practice leads to too many disgruntled loose cannons, and it is not in our interest to have such loose cannons with us. You will be perfectly free to carry on stealing as many priceless artworks as your heart desires.” He spread his hands out in a careless gesture. “Of course, I am only able to speak for what U.N.C.L.E. would do. The CIA is perfectly entitled to do as it pleases.”

“I shall need some time to think about this,” Napoleon bit out. His mouth felt very, very dry.

“I’m sure you do,” Waverly said. “How about a week?  Both Kuryakin and Miss Teller know how to reach me, when you have your answer.”

“I suppose _Kuryakin_ knew about Miss Teller,” Napoleon said impulsively as he looked directly at Illya, and took a vicious pleasure from the way Illya flinched.

“He knew that she was my agent, but not that she was to spy on you,” Waverly answered smoothly as he placed the tumbler on the dresser, his scotch only half drunk. “Gentlemen,” he greeted, shrugging on his coat. He tipped his head, first at Napoleon, then at Illya, before picking up the statuette and striding out of Napoleon’s room.

Illya, who had avoided Napoleon’s eyes while Waverly was in the room, finally looked directly at Napoleon.

“Cowboy –” Illya began.

“I don’t want to hear it,” Napoleon snapped, and fled the room.

=-=-=

When he returned to his hotel room that night, Illya had already left.

=-=-=

Napoleon avoided his shop when he returned to New York. Instead, he went directly to the apartment he had been living in, the one he had intended as another safehouse.

He took down his paintings on the first day, originals he had acquired and loved too much to fence away. He wrapped and boxed them carefully, and made arrangements for their storage.

On the second day, he sorted through his other belongings in the apartment into neat piles in every room: to be kept, to be donated, to be left behind, and to be discarded. The first pile was the smallest.

On the third day, he packed his clothes, and the items he had decided the day before that he would keep.

Each day, he would bring up Illya’s number on the display screen of his cell phone. His finger would hover over “delete” but never lower, and Napoleon would put his phone away until the next day, when he would bring it out again.

On the fourth day, the doorbell of his apartment rang. It was Illya.

“How did you find me?” Napoleon demanded, after he had wrenched the door open.

Illya blinked. He hesitated in the corridor outside Napoleon’s apartment, biting his lip. “I looked up sales records of your shop. I saw that it had been sold with this apartment, but buyer not recorded. I reasoned that it was probably you.”

Napoleon snorted, but stepped aside to let Illya in. “So much for this place being a safehouse.”

Illya ignored him, studying instead the stripped rooms, the empty walls, the half-filled cartons on the floor. “You’re running,” he concluded.

 “Damn right I am,” Napoleon retorted.

“Why?”

“Because, Illya,” Napoleon ground out, “I have a problem with people lying to me and trying to use me.”

There was an uncomfortable silence. Napoleon turned on his heel and walked back into the kitchen, where he had been cleaning out the refrigerator. Illya trailed after him wordlessly.

“I’m sorry,” Illya said hoarsely, as he leaned against the counter of Napoleon’s kitchen island.  

Napoleon stilled. He watched Illya pick up and play with the salt and pepper shakers that had been left out on the kitchen island.

“It’s not your fault,” he offered eventually. “I’ve had some time to think. I guess you were as frank with me as you could have been, in the circumstances. And it’s not like I was entirely honest with you about what I did, too” Napoleon dragged a hand down his face. He laughed suddenly, a sharp, broken sound. “It’s funny,” he told Illya’s enquiring gaze. “I was just thinking about how I only know your last name from Waverly. I never thought to ask for it. Not even after we fucked.”

“Yes, funny,” Illya echoed. He smiled mirthlessly. Paused. Then, “Chop Shop Girl’s sorry, too.”

“Chop Shop Girl?” Napoleon raised an eyebrow.

“I mean Gaby,” Illya clarified. “First time I met her was in car shop,” he explained, shrugging helplessly. “Nickname stuck. I suppose it is what you call long story.”

Napoleon laughed hollowly. “It’s okay. You can tell her that I’m not angry with her anymore, either.”

Illya’s hands were still playing absently with the salt and pepper shakers. He peered curiously at Napoleon. “Then what?” he asked.

“It’s just –” Napoleon drew a frustrated hand through his hair. “Growing up, my life wasn’t a bed of roses, you know? And now that things are better, now that I can finally have a say in what I am and who I am, you can bet that I’m not going to let anyone take this away from me. Not if I can help it.”

Illya set the shakers down gently, near the edge of the island counter. He said contemplatively, “My life growing up was not easy too, Cowboy. But it has taught me to treasure good things too. To value them.” He looked away to the cartons in Napoleon’s sitting room, then back at Napoleon. His eyes were very blue and very defiant. Napoleon swallowed.

“I think,” Illya continued quietly, “what we had was a good thing, and we can still continue to be good together. I would like to work with you as my partner at U.N.C.L.E. But if you do not choose to do so, if you would prefer to run away,” and here, Illya picked up the salt shaker again, avoiding Napoleon’s eye as he spoke, “then I hope you would look me up whenever you come back to New York.”

Napoleon drew a shaky breath. “Did Waverly put you up to saying all that?”

The salt shaker fell onto the kitchen floor. Napoleon realised that Illya’s hands had started to shake.  

“No,” said Illya shortly. “But if that is what you think, then I have nothing more to say.”  He shoved away from the kitchen island, and walked briskly towards Napoleon’s front door.

“No, wait, Illya –” Napoleon called, but Illya was gone.

=-=-=

On the fifth day, he called Gaby and asked to meet her at Prospect Park. She greeted him with a fierce hug. He held her as tightly, burying his nose in the scent of her apple perfume on her neck, so much more obvious now that it wasn’t overpowered by the layer of coffee scents in his shop.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, when she released him.

Napoleon crooked a grin. “That’s alright, I understand. I don’ have to like it, but I know that you had orders to follow. Besides,” he said as he let his grin broaden, and he raised his eyebrow suggestively, “I hear that you were Peril’s and my greatest fan.”

“Have you spoken to Illya yet?” she asked as they began to stroll aimlessly through the park. “I know he’s worried about you.”

“Not really,” Napoleon said, in as casual a tone as he could manage. He had already decided he wouldn’t mention the conversation their conversation yesterday, at least not until Illya and him –

He caught himself, and shied away from finishing that particular thought. He let it lie quietly in the back of his mind, a half-formed, nebulous, _hopeful_ thing, and asked, “How do I contact Waverly?”

=-=-=

Napoleon let himself into Del Floria’s on the lower East 40s. He slid into the fitting booth, as directed, and turned the coat hook on the back wall.

Illya was seated in one of the chairs outside Waverly’s room. He jumped to his feet when he saw Napoleon approach.

 “Cowboy,” he said hesitantly, before breaking off, glancing away.

“Peril,” Napoleon replied gravely, and grabbed Illya by the lapels of his jacket, and kissed him.

Beneath his hands, Illya froze. Napoleon released one of Illya’s crumpled lapels to the cup the back of Illya’s head, cradling it as he traced the seam of Illya’s lips with his tongue, begging for entrance. A second passed, and another, and Illya’s lips suddenly parted on a moan. Illya’s hands flew to Napoleon’s cheeks, and Napoleon let his eyes flutter shut, allowed his own whimper to escape even as he licked his apology into Illya’s mouth.

As it turned out, kissing Illya in New York was every bit as glorious as kissing Illya in Rome.

“We should probably talk,” Illya said, breathlessly, when they finally broke away. “After –” He gestured at Waverly’s door; they had been called in.

Napoleon grinned laughingly. “When this is over, it won’t just be a conversation that we’ll be having.”

Together, still smiling, they went in.

 

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr: [erushi](http://erushi.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Feel free to drop by and say hi. :)


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